


It Hurts When You're Gone

by Stormraven24



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Insecurity, M/M, Pining, Post-SPECTRE, Q's just one big mess of EMOTIONS, SPECTRE Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 19:28:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19157458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormraven24/pseuds/Stormraven24
Summary: In the aftermath of Blofeld's capture and the shake up of SPECTRE, MI6 is dealing with the fallout left behind as best it can. Q is dealing with his own fallout the best he can (which is to say, not well).





	It Hurts When You're Gone

Q doesn’t dream anymore, not since becoming Quartermaster; too-vivid nightmares prompted by what he hears over the radios and what his own imagination fills in long ago necessitated the need for sleeping pills. He gets to sleep through the night, when physical exhaustion finally gets the best of him, with no nightmares to disrupt that sleep or plague him after he wakes. That’s how he knows this isn’t a dream: his imagination is wonderful at creating horrific images he hears play out when he’s monitoring active missions, but not good enough to conjure up the weight and heat of the arm draped over his waist, the solidity of the chest pressed to his back.

He takes a deep breath just to feel the shift of his bedmate’s arm around him. His own hand feels heavy when he moves it to lay over the one pressing against his ribs; morning grogginess. He takes a moment (maybe several) to simply touch, enjoying the sensation of weathered and scarred flesh under his fingertips. What he enjoys most, however, is the deeper meaning of the presence of the man behind him. Every time Q wakes and he’s still there, rather than taken his pleasure and escaped, brings a smile to his face and a flutter to his heart.

It’s when he brings that large hand to his lips for a soft kiss to one knuckle that it moves on its own. Fingers rough with callouses glide along his jaw, then his cheek before the palm cradles the entire side of his face and turns his head back. Dry, skilled lips touch his, not pushing for more (yet) but still with that undercurrent of desire and lust that’s never fully gone.

Q’s not satisfied with such gentle handling, so he rolls under that strong arm to his back and tugs on broad shoulders until the solid, heavy weight of his lover presses him into the bed. Not once do their mouths separate, not once does their enthusiasm diminish. The touch of a tongue to his lips draws a needy groan from deep in Q’s chest as he lets it in to stroke against his own.

Only when he begins rolling his body up into his lover’s does the kiss end, allowing him to draw in much-needed air, which is then stolen from him at the sight of bright blue eyes smiling down at him. Even without his glasses those eyes are clear and sharp to him. “Hello,” he whispers, unable to do more than that.

“Hello, darling,” James says. _‘Darling’_ , Q thinks with a grin. _That’s new._ “Did you sleep well?”

He smooths a thumb under James’s left eye, fascinated by him in every way. “Brilliantly.”

James mimics the motion of Q’s thumb under the younger man’s right eye, no doubt feeling the dark circle under it from so long without proper sleep. How long has it been since he’d slept in his own bed, and for more than two hours at a time? Days? Weeks? It must be a bad sign that he can’t remember. But with James above him, nothing else is important enough to matter.

The fond laughter in James’s gaze becomes something else, something…curious.

“What?” Q asks with a soft chuckle.

“You’re remarkable,” comes the quiet response. “Absolutely remarkable…that you think you could ever have me like this.”

Cold confusion sweeps through Q at those words. “What?”

“You’re brilliant, yes, frighteningly intelligent, but did you truly believe that that would be enough?” Something’s not right. Q can’t look away from those eyes that have now become…mocking. Pitying. “If I’d wanted you, I’d have had you right there in the Gallery. The people I bed, the ones that hold my interest long enough. They’re gorgeous. Absolutely stunning. You really think yourself in the same class as them?”

Hurt and panic alike rise up from the pit of Q’s stomach, threaten to choke him. He tries to push James’s hands away, but he can’t summon the strength to even make him budge. “Why are you saying this?” His voice breaks, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“A too-skinny child with the fashion sense of an eccentric blind grandfather.” James never raises his voice, never hardens his tone. And that just makes it all the worse. “What exactly do you possess that you thought I’d be interested in? Your stick-like figure? Your ridiculous fear of flying? Your incessant nagging in my ear?”

Tears burn in Q’s eyes, but they won’t fall. They don’t even blur his vision. Every bit of pity in James’s eyes is clear as day. “Please…”

“I’ve bedded women, and men, in nearly every country. All brilliant, all beautiful. So, I can with certainty: there is not one thing about you, Q, that I find attractive.”

Q slams his eyes shut, as if that would block out the heartbreak of hearing his own insecurities used as weapons against him. When he finally manages to open them again, the room is darker and James is dressed, pulling on a pair of driving gloves as he strides to the door. That suit…Q’s seen him in that suit once before…he can’t remember…

“James!” he calls out, his voice too soft, too choked. “James, please. I don’t understand…”

The agent smirks, that same smirk he’s seen many times before when 007 is taunting a target; only now it’s directed solely at Q. “Of course you don’t,” he says calmly. “Incredible with computers, but not much else. Don’t kid yourself, Q. Stick to your circuits and numbers. You’ll be much happier than pining after people who would never want you.” He pauses at the bureau by the door to snatch up something that clinks together… “Thanks for the car. I’ll tell Doctor Swann you said hello.”

Q watches in mute horror as he steps into the darkness beyond the doorway, his throat raw and his chest tight. “James!” His voice won’t go above a whisper, and that almost frightens him. Not more than the way the room seems to shrink around the empty doorway, though.

“James!”

* * *

There’s a warm weight at his chest, another at his feet. The room is dark but for the glow of his digital alarm clock. _2:37AM._ He focuses on those numbers, trying to will them into something that makes sense to his sleep-addled brain. Focuses on the twin weights that are somehow comfortingly familiar. Focuses on making out the shapes on what he now recognizes as his nightstand. Anything to distract him from the sharp-yet-hollow feeling that’s been carved out under his ribs.

The shapes are his clock, his lamp, a couple of books on Turing, pieces of stripped wiring, a small screwdriver (Phillips head). The weights are his cats, always near him when he’s home but especially when he’s in bed: Tabitha at his feet, Orson at his chest. The numbers are the time, which means he’s been home for less than three hours, and asleep for less than that. There’s no arm thrown over him, no body at his back for that arm to hold him against, no soft breath at his nape.

A dream. That’s all it was. Nothing more than a bad dream. _Shit._ Which means he’d forgotten to take his sleeping pills. Had he remembered he would have gotten at least six hours of blessedly dreamless slumber. He curses his thoughtlessness even as he replays dream-Bond’s words to him. Every insecurity, everything he hates about himself put into words and spoken by the very man he’s tried so hard to not think about at all (or at least a version of him). The subconscious reminder that he walked away from MI6 ( _from me,_ he desperately tries not to think) for a woman he’d known less than four days in a car that Q himself had built…he can’t decide if that hurts more or less than the rest of the dream. _Nightmare._

No, the worst part is that he knows how irrational his emotions are. He’d never had any claim to Bond, never been given any hint of attraction beyond banter that sometimes toed the line of flirtation. Bond was never his, which makes his hurt over the man leaving completely baseless, which makes him hate himself even more for building a fictional relationship in his head. He’s tried being happy for Bond, and Dr. Swann, but every attempt had only felt…fake. He’s upset Bond’s gone, he’s upset by the very fact that he’s upset, and everything just _sucks_.

Well, he’s certainly awake now. He’s due back at the office at seven, so he can’t very well take a sleeping pill now. He tries to throw off the nightmare as easily as he throws the sheets from himself (Orson just rolls over and buries himself deeper under the covers; Tabitha doesn’t budge). He dresses in the same clothes as yesterday in the bathroom so as not to further disturb the cats with a light, then makes sure their bowls have fresh food and water.

Q mentally kicks himself the entire time for forgetting his pills before falling asleep in the bed where he’d spent many an hour thinking about a man he can’t (could never) have. Of course his subconscious would blend his fantasies with harsh realities there. Perhaps he should stay at Six for the next few days until he feels better. Ask Moneypenny to check in on the cats until he’s mentally able to handle being in his own home. Hell, he could just bring the cats to Six with him…wait, no, too many things that could hurt them should the nosey buggers get into them. He’ll ask Eve later, then.

He’s on a near-empty train heading towards Vauxhall when he realizes how far he’s made it from home without recalling the time in between. Then realizes he’s left his mobile on the kitchen counter. _Goddammit._ Now he’s irritated. A single unpleasant dream has disrupted his entire existence at the moment. _Oh joy._ At least the extra hours before the day shifts arrive in Q Branch means he can make some decent progress on the modified Audi he’s been working on for 004. (He doesn’t think about how he’ll never touch another Aston Martin if he can ever help it. Audis, Bugattis, Ferraris, even bloody Fiats, but never another Aston Martin.)

He ignores how he makes a beeline for the workshop where the frame and chassis of what will be a beautiful vehicle sits in silent wait for her mechanic. Losing himself in his work is the only way to put the dream and Bond himself out of his mind. He’ll work until midnight again if he has to. It wouldn’t be the first time.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how late trains in London run *shrug*
> 
> I'm sorry for putting Q through this. My intention is to do my own fix-it fic before the next movie, so to do that we gotta go through the torture first.


End file.
